


The Lost Ones

by rowofstars



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Mystery, creepiness, mild psychological horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-04
Updated: 2009-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-18 09:39:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4701251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowofstars/pseuds/rowofstars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the week 8 prompt at <a class="i-ljuser-profile" href="http://writerinatardis.livejournal.com/profile"><img class="i-ljuser-userhead"/></a><a class="i-ljuser-username" href="http://writerinatardis.livejournal.com/">writerinatardis</a>, which was: The TARDIS is damaged during a landing, stranding the Doctor and Rose somewhere until she's repaired.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lost Ones

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by [](http://anepidemic.livejournal.com/profile)[anepidemic](http://anepidemic.livejournal.com/), the best support staff a girl could ask for and a huge reason why the things that come out of my keyboard are any good at all.

The world is oddly quiet, almost sleepy, devoid of even the comforting sounds of birds and insects and people. The clouds are thick and heavy in the sky, leaving Rose struggling to remember what sunshine feels like over her skin. The Doctor hasn’t said where exactly they’ve landed this time, only that no, they can’t leave and no, the Tardis is not all right.

They find shelter in an old house with a leaning porch and sagging roof, less than a quarter mile from the ship. It feels like Earth from the recent past, or perhaps near future, everything looks the same, yet is somehow different enough that it takes half a morning to sort out how the toaster works. It might be a parallel world, it’s hard to tell, and the Doctor is uncharacteristically short on explanations.

The truth is he’s afraid to consider the possibilities, but he’s even more afraid to tell them to Rose.

 

 

* * *

 

 

There are bumps in the night while she shivers under thin bedding that used to belong to someone else, though she tries very hard not to consider that fact. She can feel eyes on her, staring out from unfamiliar shadows in suspicious corners. Slipping out of bed, she pulls on her jeans and wanders downstairs, her bare feet padding softly across the wood floor. The Doctor sits on the sofa, arms folded in his lap, staring out the window into the darkness.

His face is blank, but his eyes convey all the despair and anger she knows he keeps inside. He doesn’t notice her until she flops on the seat next to him, tucking her legs and pink polished toes underneath her. When he finally looks at her it feels like he wants to say something, yet he turns away, reticent as ever. His hand does find hers though, fitting together in a way they’ve done a thousand times.

His gaze reverts to the window while she stares at the tangle of their fingers like it’s the rope saving her from falling. They sit like that until sunrise, their hands resting together on her thigh, his thumb smoothing over her pale skin.  


 

 

* * *

 

 

Time is even more skewed here than in the Tardis, all the clocks were off or flashing midnight when they arrived. After what Rose thinks is two weeks, the food is more than half gone, so they ration it to one meal each day. It’s not like they need more than that, there isn’t much running to do.

She’s up to her elbows in warm soap suds with a plate in her hand when the hair prickles on the back of her neck. The kitchen window is open and the curtains billow in the wind. Suddenly she can feel the eyes again, watching her, as if the bleakness outside is trying to draw her in. In haste, she breaks the latch forcing it closed. She abandons the dishes and checks all the windows, fingering the locks, just to be sure, and pulling the curtains shut.

Later, the Doctor returns from his attempted repairs to dirty water in the sink and Rose huddled on the sofa, half hidden in a blanket. She tells him she doesn’t feel well, and he doesn’t ask about the windows.

 

 

* * *

 

 

One week the Doctor walks as many miles as he can in every direction, finding only lonely stretches of pavement, barren fields and a few empty houses. He doesn’t tell Rose about those.

Their house sits alone a narrow road yet they haven’t seen any other people, just the reminders of where they were and who they might have been. There is unfinished knitting draped over the arm of a chair in the living room. The reds and oranges and yellows of the yarn blend from one into another with patches of brown here and there. Rose thinks briefly about picking it up to pass the time, but lets it sit, as if the owner will return to finish it any day now.

It’s going to be a scarf, she thinks.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The Doctor doesn’t like the bedroom at the end of the hall.

It must have belonged to a little girl, but all that’s left is a dainty bed and faded yellow walls. He notices a gap in the dust on the dresser shaped like the outstretched legs of a doll. The urge rises in him to wipe it away, push the dust aside as if that will chase the ghost of another lost little girl away.

When he closes his eyes he can almost see her, holding the doll with the porcelain skin and ruffled petticoat.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Every day the Doctor leaves to work on the Tardis while Rose sits nervously on the sofa, picking at the last scraps of polish on her nails. There is a television that appears to be in working order which the he has not yet scavenged for parts, but every channel is static. Still, she checks without fail, flipping through each one lowest to highest and back again as she waits for the sound of his boots on the porch.

When he returns, there is no wide grin, only the snap of the screen door as it closes and the trudge of his steps across the wood floor. She mumbles awkwardly about making dinner, if there’s anything left of their meager stores to eat.

When he sinks onto the seat beside her and pulls her to him it catches her off guard. He never comes to her anymore, and most of the time she wonders if he remembers she’s there at all. He clings to her fiercely, nose buried in the supple skin of her neck, contemplating what it might mean if the Tardis can’t be fixed.

When he leans back she doesn’t see her calm, strong Time Lord, the Oncoming Storm who can make mere mortals tremble with a passing glance, but a man defeated by circumstance. Their lips meet in passion and desperation, tongues and hands and bodies conveying everything they can’t say out loud.  
_We will make it. We will have more adventures. It’s always been better with two._

 

 

* * *

 

 

Several days later, Rose finds herself lying in another strange bed, but the Doctor’s light snoring and the gentle hum of the Tardis, as they float happily in the void, are welcome replacements for odd creaks and aberrant shadows. She curls against him and lets her eyes drift shut, secure in the knowledge that they’ll always be all right, no matter what.

He never offers any answers on where they were or what might have happened to the people who once lived there, but then, she never asks either.


End file.
